


To The Mistral Wind

by TheIronTreeBlooms



Series: O Death [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Alchemy, Death!Harry, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mentorship, Obsessive Tom Riddle, Possessive Tom Riddle, Powerful Harry Potter, Romance, Slow Burn, The Flamels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22126300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIronTreeBlooms/pseuds/TheIronTreeBlooms
Summary: In old Provence there is a galeSo powerful they call it Master.Swift and free it brings disasterOn strong wings that shall never fail.The Mistral wind comes from afarSetting both foot and mind to dance.Amidst the swirling world of chanceIt leaps up to the highest star.A spin-off of Ain't No Grave in which one bored immortal with too much time and power is involved. Can be read on its own.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: O Death [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592683
Comments: 18
Kudos: 210





	1. Prologue

Located on the fringes of existence, folded somewhere between the fabric of space and tucked neatly into the abyss of time, a vast and empty landscape stretched as far as the eye could see.

The sky, painted in a color that could be described as pale gray, or perhaps a worn ivory. The flat ground, hard and cracked, is equally as bland in color.

It is a pale and colorless barren world that makes up Death's Realm.

The only features to break up the monotony are the countless circular pools of blue light embedded in the dry cracked ground.

If one were to peer closely into these pools of light, one would be able to witness the events of various times and dimensions playing out within. There are grand scenes that range from humans dressed in armour and carrying spears engaged in war to humans constructing great structures of civilization. Then there are less grand but still fascinating scenes of humans living ordinary everyday lives in a more peaceful and technologically advanced society. And further still there are fantastical scenes to be glimpsed in the dragons that soar in the skies and the silver haired humans who ride them in one pool of light to the tall and graceful elves that roam in the forests of another.

But perhaps most curious of all were the scenes of boys and girls with unruly raven black hair or wild crimson locks but all carrying the lightning bolt scar that they share in common performing feats of magic.

Above the barren ground and its infinite pools of blue light floats a majestic castle with spiralling towers, arching ceilings and tall windows constructed completely from obsidian glass. The black glassy structure seems to suck in the dull light of the pale sky and the ethereal blue of the circular pools while refracting those very same rays of light at the same time.

It is on the very tallest of the four towers that grace the glass castle that the King of this still and barren world, this lifeless plane known as Death's Realm, awakens from his most recent slumber.

Sprawled on a throne-like chair carved from ebony as dark as the long silky mane that flow over the chair's right arm-rest like spilled ink, the figure shifts infinitesimally, the only sign of their awakening in the slight twitch of pale fingers against robes of black smoke, the quiver of inky lashes and the furrowing of equally dark brows.

"Slept well?"

Blinking open luminous burning eyes of unnatural viridity in a pale face equally devoid of humanity, the being - Man? God? - focused those two shocking spots of life and color, in an otherwise dead and monochrome world, on the opposite throne-like chair.

Or more specifically, on the skull of a ram with thick, curling horns and long, slender visage placed on it.

"Quite. How long has it been this time?"

A question of idle curiosity, hinted by the apathetic tones and impassive face. The being's attention already drifting to the chessboard with its pieces arranged in the midst of a game on top of the low round table separating the two chairs. It all appeared as if the being had only nodded off briefly while waiting for their opponent's move.

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose not." A bitter sigh. A crack in the mask of indifference.

And indeed, time held no sway over primordial and eternal beings such as them.

Such knowledge, however, brought no joy to the humanoid of the two.

"Tsk. You are wasting away in this self-imposed isolation of yours."

"Eternal ennui will do that. If I cannot find oblivion through active means perhaps I will try passivity instead." The being retorted with petulance.

The Other did not reply though it did emit a surprising amount of annoyance for an inanimate object that normally lacked petty human emotions.

In a retaliation too fast for the being to avoid, the ram skull had lifted itself into the air and headbutted its companion with those wickedly curved horns.

"Ow!" An indignant shout broke the tranquility that permeates Death's Realm. "What was that for?!"

"For being a whiny human."

The being frowned visibly in irritation, completely giving up their mask of apathy. Not many things could truly affect them but the Other was a special existence. A dark glare equal parts enticing and intimidating when being conveyed from those sharply sculpted features, unsettling in their inhuman perfection but undeniably awe-inspiring in the way icy blocks of glaciers, snow topped mountains, and golden sand dunes are.

The oppressively dangerous aura that only comes with indomitable power, however, was completely shattered when the being accused their companion, sounding more like a whining child than an ageless immortal capable of bending reality and controlling the balance of life and death. "This situation is entirely your fault. Why did you have to go and create those blasted things?"

"Selective amnesia is unbecoming of you. May I remind you, you were the one complaining of boredom." Settling back on its chair, the skull manages to give off the impression of shrugging its nonexistent shoulders.

"Besides, I rather doubt you would have a different fate even without the Hallows. It was the will of the universe."

Before the same conversation lead to the same rant from its companion, the Other changed the subject in well practiced ease that successfully headed off another angst-filled tantrum from its companion.

"It is nearing three centuries since you had last walked the mortal planes. Perhaps a visit to an alternate world that you have yet to explore? A change of pace will do wonders for your unfortunate regression into a toddler."

Another annoyed glare was directed to their snarky companion. "Why does Death have to be a snarky talking sheep skull?" A rhetorical moan of complaint.

"It's a ram skull, thank you. And do I have to remind you that we are one and the same? As we are, in essence, the same entity since you have taken up your new post, you are only insulting yourself. And they call you the Master." A quick and snide reply.

The previously unidentified being, now known as the King of Death's Realm, the Master of Death, or simply Death sighed in annoyed frustration.

It has been close to five millennia since Harry Potter has died and the being known as the Master of Death took his place.

Perhaps the title "Master of Death" is inaccurate, as most mortal constructions are bound to be. Contrary to the Tale of the Three Brothers, Death was not a sentient being that one could gain control over. While he had control over matters that related to death, it was not as simple as gaining immortality or ferrying souls to the afterlife.

No, being Master of Death meant that the concepts of Death and Life, were personified in him, whereas before they had just been natural processes of the universe. After all, death and life are two sides of the same coin. If he was Death, then that also meant he was Life as well. It had been a shock when he first learned the true extent to his powers and duties.

His main duty was to make sure there was a balance between life and death energies. In other words, making sure souls depart for the afterlife when their time was up, not before or after. But that whole business is carried out entirely by his servants, blue wraiths that pass like ghosts through the various worlds that make up the universe Death has dominion, only making occasional pit stops in Death's Realm. It was rare but he only got involved if there was an imbalance caused from too many untimely deaths which result in a surplus of life energy that needs to be redistributed before it brings chaos down upon the mortal worlds. An even rarer occurrence is the deficit in life energy in which case it was his responsibility to ah, bring up the mortality rate as it were.

Before he took up the post, the processes of Death and Life had been left to run naturally without a keeper, which meant a build up or lack of life energy depending on the world, and both which lead to chaos ravaging the mortal worlds. Whole worlds had been destroyed by the chaotic energy. In fact, his own original world had also been affected, the chaotic energy causing magic to slowly dwindle and would have ceased to exist along with the rest of life had it not been his timely appointment.

So many worlds were showing signs of destruction and chaos it came to the point where the universe activated a self-defense mechanism, for lack of a better description. His collection of the Deathly Hallows had not been as much of an accident as he had thought and far from the manipulation of a mortal, no matter how far-seeing Dumbledore had been. In fact, they were trials willed by the universe and carried out by himself, chosen by the universe to be the worthy keeper to right the balance that had been left to tip precariously since the beginning of existence. Many had collected the Hallows and undergone the accompanying trials but none had been chosen in the end. Good examples were the many alternate versions of himself in the universe, some of whom he had even met, and all had collected the Hallows. However, he was the only one to have been chosen to take up the cursed title. Even after millennia he was still unclear why he was the unlucky mortal who had been chosen. Indeed, there had been nothing random about his fate as he later discovered when it had turned out that the creator of the Hallows had in fact been himself. Even now that discovery continues to confuse and vex him greatly.

Others in his position would have been ecstatic. After all, he had unimaginable power, a literal God with control over life and death. And as far as he knew, he was the higher power of the universe, able to change the fates of billions with a single thought. His only responsibilities were little and the balance was easy to fix and maintain. But as far as he was concerned, the drawbacks outweighed the benefits. Without any responsibilities or challenges there was only so much one could fill his unlimited time with whatever that strikes his fancy, be it magic, science, music, art, people, etc - made all the more easy with the astonishing memory that came along with his new immortality.

Nor can he completely prevent himself from falling into a state of ennui by hopping from one alternate world to another and creating alternate worlds of alternate worlds through meddling with the timeline and/or events before that lost its appeal. The mortal worlds could be amusing and he had come across many interesting individuals. Interesting enough to extend their life with the surplus life energies floating around and even bestowing some of his own powers. But his interest never remained long because he had found that immortality, whether true immortality like his own, or a bastardization through the gifting of his powers and bestowing of a longer life always changed them, resulting in the loss of the very things he had been drawn in by. Was he not a great example of how eternity could change a mortal? After all, he was no longer the naive boy who believed in good and evil. In fact, he had been the instigator of many of the natural and mortal disasters that resulted in the deaths of millions, countless of whom had been innocents, in order to right the balance between life and death. Killing millions to save whole worlds - utilitarianism at its finest.

And for all his power, he could not resign from his position and join the dead in the afterlife, the only thing he desired. As the Master who personified Life and Death, he (obviously) could not be killed. But through personal experience during his desperate phase, he could be injured, wounded, torn apart, atomized, liquefied, or otherwise obliterated, but he always recovered into the flawless, truly eternal being that he is in short order. Much like a phoenix, a creature who symbolizes life and death, as Death he could not be truly killed and as Life he was regenerated soon afterwards. It was pointless and redundant. A fact that he eventually learned, all the while being treated to a liberal amount of disparaging remarks from his only constant companion.

The ram skull, his Other Self, had been present since he first ended his mortal life as Harry Potter at the age of nineteen when he had been hit with his third Killing Curse while rounding up the remaining Voldemort followers and supporters, and subsequently made the transformation into the Master.

He had woken up in the King's chambers of the glass castle in Death's Realm, human biology completely overturned, wrapped in the Invisibility Cloak, wearing the unbroken Resurrection Stone set in elegant silver on his left index finger, and clutching the Elder Wand in his right hand. The ram skull had been perched on the pillow next to him and nearly caused him to let out an expletive when it first spoke. However, he did let loose a string of expletives after learning that they are both the same entity, the same being, two sides of a coin.

To say that it is a situation that he is unhappy about would be an understatement. However, while he had eventually given up ever returning to being just Harry, he is reluctant to refer to himself as the Master, a small and pointless act of denial he has yet to give up. Instead, he has taken to identifying himself as Hadrian J. Peverell, an alias that has gradually become true over time.

Even after millennia, it is still strange to acknowledge the fact that they are essentially what dissociative identity disorder would be like given form. A coping mechanism he had somehow created even before eternity truly began to drive him mad. Though whether it is only driving him insane faster is still in question.

Deciding to not argue with himself as the case may be, Hadrian tried to get himself excited at the prospect of a visit to an unfamiliar world.

"And do you have in mind a certain location?"

"Nope."

"Of course. Spin the Deathstick it is then." Not even bothering to acknowledge his Other's lack of responsibility.

In an inhuman show of grace and weightlessness, Hadrian glided to his full height of 5 feet 11 inches, 6 feet had he been wearing boots. The Invisibility Cloak draped loosely over his shoulders and contrasted against the long inky waves of slightly unruly hair that seem to blend into the smokey black robe he has taken to wear over the past millennia. The Resurrection Stone as always, rests on his left index finger while the Elder Wand is stuck haphazardly in his hair in a negligent attempt to pin the rebellious strands back from his face.

Pale, shoeless feet tapped silently on the smooth glass floor as he moved to the very ledge of the tower that lack any barrier preventing a dangerous plunge down.

Staring out at his domain and the pools of blue light that dot the landscape and grace the otherwise barren world with an eerie beauty, Hadrian reached pale slender hands out from the voluminous sleeves to lift the ram skull and fit it against a face that look far too young and beautiful and eyes far too nature green and bright to be the face of Death but appropriate for a being known also as Life.

With a single step, he plunged over the tower.

In the middle of freefall, three pairs of great black feathered wings with an impressive wingspan burst from the eternally youthful being's back to ride the wind currents and carry their owner down towards the pools of blue light, close enough that his bare feet could skim them if he wanted.

Long, dusty memories of flying on his Firebolt, on the backs of a hippogriff, a thestral, and a dragon, as well as the joy and exhilaration that accompanied them resurfaced in his mind palace, bringing a true smile on those pale, thin lips. Regrettably, it was hidden from view behind the ghostly mask.

It would seem that the only thing that could not lose its appeal was flying. That immortality came with his own set(s) of wings is probably the only aspect he enjoys about his immortal state.

After a while soaring across his domain, Hadrian paused in midair to pull the Elder Wand from his hair which instantly tumbled loose to frame the ram skull currently masquerading as a mask, creating an appearance that was reminiscent of the enigmatic and indomitable horned gods depicted in mortal tales.

Hadrian allowed the wand to spin in midair until it stopped, following the direction it pointed to on wings of tangible night.

Landing beside a pool of blue light that could not be differentiated from all the others, Hadrian crouched down to stir the substance that seems half water, half light with the point of the Elder Wand. Much like one would stir the contents of a pensieve.

The window and portal into one of the many worlds of the universe depicted a strangely familiar reality in which a hidden society is threatened by war in both worlds.

"Oh." Hadrian mused thoughtfully. Inky brows furrowed in indecision.

The last time Hadrian had visited his original world had been millennia ago. In fact it was the first time he had travelled backwards in time, spurred by the desire to meet the parents he never had and the very knowledge that he could. 

It had also been the first time he meddled with the events of the world, causing it to split off and become an alternate world from the original one that birthed him. 

While he will always hold the memories he made in that world safe and treasured within his mind palace, but like dark chocolate the experience was bittersweet.

On that sunny day as he stood in St. Jerome's graveyard located in Godric's Hollow for the last time, the realization that he is immortal truly sank in. No matter how much he pretended to be normal it will never be true. 

It was his first lesson in immortality. Afterwards, many places, people and creatures came and went on his travels but he was always good about keeping a distance.

_Then you should not be so intimidated about revisiting a version of your original world, no?_

The snarky voice of his long time companion interrupted his melancholy thoughts like a prick to a balloon. 

Snapping out of the mood he had fallen into, Hadrian replied with annoyance, "Who exactly is intimidated? Do I look intimidated to you?"

_Then why are you just standing there doing a rather likely impersonation of a tree?_

"I was thinking. Something that I know must be a foreign concept for a sheep, I know."

"Excuse you! I'm a ram, dammit! I suppose even the great and terrible Death is affected by old age." Reappearing before him at face level, the ram skull shook itself in mock pity.

"Ooh funny." Hadrian rolled his eyes before slapping said funny skull into the pool of blue light he had been staring into just before, causing the large ripples one might have from dropping a stone in a pool of water.

Without anymore hesitation, the enigmatic figure of one Hadrian J. Peverell, otherwise know as the Master of Death and the reluctant King of Death's Realm, followed after an irate ram skull, sinking into the same pool of blue light, disappearing from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Σ(꒪ॢ∀꒪;)՞л̵ʱªʱª
> 
> For starting a new story instead of updating...please forgive me?


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I hope everyone is keeping healthy and safe during this crazy time. It's been awhile since the last update but with nothing else to do while quarantined at home might as well get my lazy ass working on releasing the very much late updates ╮(╯∀╰)╭

July 16, 1941  
London, United Kingdom

The night was dark and cloudy, the moon hidden as it was behind the clouds. Even the stars did not deign to make any appearances.

From the crack in the boarded up windows Tom could make out the occasional humid summer breeze. It did nothing to relieve the heat.

It was not the heat that was keeping him awake, however, having become used to it after fourteen summers. 

No, it was a persistent, uneasiness that no amount of Occlumency practices could stem.

As if he had been waiting for it - a sound broke the silence of the night. High and shrill, so alarming it made him leap up from the flimsy little cot that had accompanied him over the years but now was no longer adequate enough to hold his growing body. 

The piercing sound signaled an end to the tense silence just seconds ago as the occupants of the building he was currently in burst into a flurry of rushed, nervous movements.

In the dark someone collided into him as they made their panicked way down the narrow hallways and towards the exit. Tom's nostrils flared in anger but quickly pushed away the irritation as he followed after the rest of the occupants. 

They went tripping down steps, fumbling hands gripping at the walls or each other for balance, and through a door. He could feel the muggle bodies inches from his. Dozens and dozens, cramming together. 

He wrenched away from the dirty hands. _Muggles._ How dare they touch him?

The door opened and he could see the moon high up in the sky, a sliver of white, cold and indifferent to the happenings on this side of the earth. The air-raid siren was loud - so impossibly loud he could focus on nothing else.

His surroundings was a dark blur. The Muggles were indistinguishable shapes, their movements accompanied by the background music that was the wailing noise of the siren like a grim parody of a ballet. 

A stifled cry from a child. Muttered prayers. Hissed, nervous urgings - to move _faster_.

That noise ringing into the night.

All Tom could think was that he was going to die. An awful muggle death in this awful muggle city. With the very beings that he felt loath and contempt for, reduced to nothing but a number on a list of casualties.

He had his wand but what good was a wand against bombs? How would a shield charm hold up to hundreds of them, all going off at once. Enough to create a ripple that tore miles upon miles, made the entire ground explode.

He could envision it - the dirty cement floor, crumbling and falling apart, and himself cold, bloody, dead.

A tube station came into vision, already packed with huddling figures, with more joining in. The same routine after the first sound of the alarm as if it had been carried out a hundred times. Maybe it had, but he had been at Hogwarts.

Soft, relieved noises at the sight of the station.

Tom's lips curved in an ugly, sardonic smile. Hiding under a Muggle construction, the only barrier he had against the bombs, clinging to the illusion of safety. Safe. Never while he was here.

He was going to die in London, crouched on the ground like a beggar, a muggle. He should never have returned. He should have turned right back around after catching his first sight of the rubbles left behind by the German bombs that had been dropping for months over Britain. 

_Dead. Dead. Dead._

Staring out into the dark London streets, Tom sat crouched near the entrance, a white knuckle grip on the wand in his pocket the only thing keeping him from completely losing it. 

And as he sat there on the filthy ground, penned in by equally filthy, sniveling muggles, memories flooded him.

He remembered the first time he had heard those sirens barely two weeks ago and how he had scoffed at them. The muggles' silly inventions were nothing to him. They could never touch him when he was _magical._ He had taken the chaos as an opportunity to sneak away, not keen on being herded like sheep towards the nearest tube station. 

Very soon, reality slapped him in the face as he had learned that magic would not save him. He was nothing special in the face of death. After realizing just how helpless he was in the face of the destruction left behind by muggle weapons, he had barely managed to retreat back to a nearby shelter in time. He would never forget the sight of buildings crumbling as if they were not made of bricks and stone but of paper cards.

In that moment, aside from horror and fear, he had felt anger. Just before the summer holiday began, Tom had asked, once again, to remain for the summer. But just like at the end of his first year, Headmaster Dippet only replied with a sad, pitying smile, “I'm sorry Tom, it’s simply not done this way. I can't let you stay over the summer.” He had been forced to return to a world in a middle of war, just one of many orphans living under the threat of German bombings. The stung of the rejection was only magnified by the precarious situation he was in.

And as if echoing his thoughts - stone, ash, and fire that fell like rain - the sound of planes could be heard even under the wailing of the sirens and the first bomb of the night dropped over London.

He felt his breathing become faster, nearly hyperventilating as though panic and adrenaline rushed through his veins instead of blood. Tom gripped the stone wall of the station entrance for support as he saw and heard the buildings exploding into rubble and catching in flames that lit up the night. Screams mixed into the cacophony of death and destruction.

Any moment now, the place he was currently crouched in would be hit and he was going to be crushed, to disappear leaving nothing behind but a bloody mess of blood, bones and gore. His broken body was going to be dragged out of a mass of rubble, halfway intact just like he had seen them do so many times before, to be lined up for no one to recognize. 

Just as his thoughts descended into buzzing madness, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed something that pulled him right out of the spiralling thoughts of gruesome death. 

Eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at the figure, a man - a crazy man - who was currently strolling leisurely down the destroyed street, heedless to the falling rubble or the fire that licked at the hems of the dark robes that he was wearing.

Tom blinked his eyes hard at the ludicrous image before him. He could still hear and see the German planes flying above, heralding more bombs to be dropped. It was literally raining stone and fire out there. What kind of person willingly takes a walk amidst that instead of tucking into the nearest shelter they could find?!

Tom's brows furrowed. 

Wait. Robes? 

A closer examination confirmed his conclusion. Those were wizarding robes. Not of any design he was used to seeing from his peers but they were undeniably wizarding robes. 

Tom's heart started to beat faster at this revelation. What was a wizard doing in the muggle world? And in the middle of an air raid no less? 

It was the first time he had ever seen a magical person in the muggle world. The shock of his two worlds blurring together when they had been so distinctively separated before distracted him from the nearly paralyzing fear he had been feeling just minutes ago. 

In the seconds of his puzzlement, the wizard had already moved closer to where he was currently hiding and Tom was able to catch a clearer glimpse of this mad wizard that had seem to suddenly appear out of nowhere.

What he saw had Tom letting out an involuntary gasp.

For the first time Tom felt the inadequacy of his repertoire of words as he was speechless to describe the breathtaking sight before him.

In all honesty, he had seen his fair share of good-looking wizards and witches. He sees himself in the mirror everyday after all. Unlike those around him, he was never much interested in physical appearances other than the advantages that his own appearance brings him. 

Never until now had he been so affected by someone's appearance and presence alone. 

Tom Marvolo Riddle was involuntarily subjected to an accelerated heart rate, a heated blush crawled up from his chest to neck and further up to cheeks and the tips of his ears, like some… some… pubescent girl. 

Adrenaline pumped through his veins once again but this time not in panic but something else. It urged him to do something, anything to quell the strange, intolerable hunger that suddenly overcame him in waves. 

He stared unblinking at the wizard who had paused only a few feet distance away. 

He was young. Looked to be only a couple years out of Hogwarts in fact. Tom had never seen him during his time at Hogwarts. He would have remembered otherwise. 

A narrow, slender frame that was by no means short or fragile. In fact, his eyes could trace lithe but powerful muscles partially hidden under elegant robes that appear featherlight despite the layers, like that of the muscles that roll underneath the skin of a leopard. Lithe. Graceful. _Deadly._

Moon pale skin that contrasted starkly against his robes and hair, both of which seem to melt into the dark night. The firelight cast from the flaming rubble warmed the otherwise marble cold complexion, softening the sculpted, unforgivingly handsome features to something more human and approachable. 

But that was only a facade, quickly shattered when confronted by eyes like cut emeralds deeply set in the face of a fallen angel. 

Indeed, did it not seem like a scene taken from Dante's Inferno, a fallen angel passing by the fiery pits of Hell, indifferent to the suffering and death he encounters, his dark wings invulnerable to any licking flames?

And that was yet another detail to the bewildering image in front of him. Tom could not identify the type of shielding spell the wizard was employing but it was quite obvious that the wizard had done something to prevent the falling rubble and flames from making any contact with his person. It was like the wizard was standing in the eye of the storm that was the German Blitz, everywhere else was chaos and destruction but for the circumference in which he stood at the very center. It was too coincidental to be anything but the result of human effort. No one was that lucky to avoid even the smallest of falling debris when standing right out in the open like an easy target. And judging by the pristine nature of the wizard's attire not even dust and ash had touched him.

Unlike with a normal shield, the falling sharp rubble did not bounce off an invisible barrier surrounding the wizard instead it was as if the rubble had taken on a consciousness and was _deliberately_ avoiding the wizard. 

What an absurd notion. 

But as Tom watched in disbelief, he saw how a falling firebomb, literally veered away from the spot the wizard was occupying and eventually landing several feet away to blow up a signpost, defying the rules of gravity when by all rights its destination should have been inches from the wizard's left foot.

It was no wonder the wizard looked like he was only taking a walk in his backyard if he was in possession of such unfathomable ability. 

As if able to feel the burning gaze latched onto his person, the strange wizard tilted his face in Tom's direction. Cold emeralds locked with stormy grey. 

There was a moment when Tom's brilliant mind completely white blanked and the world became silent and still but for that splash of verdant.  
  
And then everything came back into focus as the wizard moved to stop in front of Tom. 

"What's an underage wizard doing in a place like this?"

Warm and mellow, the wizard's voice brought to mind the soulful tone of the cello. 

Surprisingly, it was not the familiar crisp British accent he was used to but melodious and exotic. It was not any accent he can pinpoint but seem to be a blend of several - he could only make out a hint of lilting French. 

"I'm not the only wizard here. But I know I have no intention of being here in the first place either." Tom said quietly as he surreptitiously looked at the muggles nearby. What would they make of the eccentric man who suddenly appeared looking completely out of place in comparison to everyone else's disheveled and worn appearance? Knowing their mundane little minds, they would probably dismiss the wizard as a crazy escapee from a mental ward, strikingly handsome though he might be.

"They won't be able to see anything out of the ordinary." The wizard, noticing Tom's careful look around, offered helpfully. "I also did not intend to wander into a war zone either."

"You sound like that is something that happens often." Tom instantly fixed his attention back on the mysterious wizard crouched in front of him now that he doesn't have to worry about the Statute of Secrecy being broken in front of him.

"There is a lot of death at a war zone." As if that answered anything. 

Tom observed the strange wizard with unabashed interest. Envious of how the dirt of their surroundings make no impact on the wizard's pristine robes despite how they are practically dragging through the dirty, debris littered floor. 

Inexplicably, Tom felt back to his normal composed self with the stranger next to him despite the fact that he could still hear the whirring and buzzing of warplanes above. He was never one to rely on anyone but himself. And yet, to his own disturbance the feeling of calm and safety was definitely a result of the other's presence, loath as he was to admit it. 

Tom pulled up his familiar polite and charming mask, "I have never seen you at Hogwarts before. Did you already graduate?"

"Oh, yes, I graduated already. But from Beauxbatons, not Hogwarts." The older wizard leaned forward placing a sharp chin on his knees in a rather childish position. Thick, sooty lashes lowered as he watched his own long and slender index finger idly roll a rock on the ground. With those intense viridescent pools hidden and sharply sculpted features framed by soft obsidian waves, the aggressive nature of his beauty forcibly became softened into something young and docile. And couple with his current body posture, the formidable and aloof looking wizard that he had first seen backlit by bomb fires and crumbling buildings seem to have melted away impossibly into a sweeter and naive version. 

He wondered which was real - the dangerous wizard indifferent to death and destruction or the childish young man too unaware and guileless to remain on guard in front of a stranger. 

Inconceivably, the burning hunger low in his belly only flared brighter. Stormy grey eyes darkened to jet black as he quietly observed his mysterious companion. 

Tom was not unfamiliar with desire.

Indeed, he knew intimately the torrid pulses that seared the body in desperate need. He wasn't above desire, and he desired numerous things - power, control, immortality, respect. He craved to achieve greatness, be the most talented, most recognized. He sought his name to be known among all men, women, children, and creatures, but never before had he desired another witch or wizard.

Sure, he likes to control them for his own ends; likes to collect the talented or useful witches and wizards and make them a part of his following. But he had never felt such lust and need to possess another before. He despised physical contact and believes wholly that there is no one deserving of any intimate contact from him. Despite how since third year teenage hormones seem to have possessed his fellow peers he never participated in any of the crude discussions and passing around of copies of Witch Weekly. He is much too in control of his mind and body to be driven by such trivial things such as hormones. And to be honest, his sexual drive was not particularly high. A quick hand job in the shower took care of any side effects of puberty. After all, he has much better things to be doing than waste his time with silly human weaknesses. Sexual gratification could never compare to knowledge or power or influence. 

So it was rather surprising for him to feel such intense, burning need. A dark, possessive need to take and control and - _ruin._

Images flashed through his mind - shocked, glistening emeralds peering up through wet lashes, marble white skin flushed with heat and marred in purple-red bruises, raven black silken threads spread out over the Slytherin green comforter of his four poster bed in the Slytherin dorm -

Tom bit discretely on the inside of his cheek to clear his mind of those unexpected images. Now was hardly the time to become distracted by figments of his imagination when the real object of his attention was right in front of him.

"I've read about Beauxbatons Academy. Is there really a Fountain of Youth located in the school's park?"

Emeralds glittered in amusement. "Ah, yes, it is often called that but it only has healing and beautifying properties. It can't restore your youth or make you immortal. It's official name is Fontaine de Flamel."

"Flamel?"

"The alchemist, yes. Nicolas and Perenelle part-funded Beauxbatons' beautiful chateaux and grounds with alchemist gold, for they met at Beauxbatons in their youth. Thus, they had a fountain named after them in honor of their contributions." The older wizard smiled fondly. 

Before Tom could reply, they were interrupted by muggles getting up from the ground.

"It looks like the Germans have left. It is safe to leave the shelter now." Tom noted, slightly disappointed. He hadn't even noticed the bombs had stopped, so immersed he was in the other's company.

"So it seems." The older wizard stretched up to his full height, a good head taller than Tom, to his annoyance. 

Mistaking the frown on Tom's face, the older wizard patted his shoulder companionably and quoted, "All feasts must come to an end. But, I can accompany you back to your home if you'd like? I am on holiday as well with a lot of free time I have no idea what to do with." 

Tom schooled his features to the friendly charming smile he had perfected years ago, only unbeknownst to himself there was a touch of genuine to it that had never been present before. While he wasn't keen on showing the drab orphanage to the older wizard, he was less keen on the other leaving.

"That would be brilliant, thanks."

The walk to Wool's was more pleasant than anticipated, despite having to pick their way through crumbled debris and the occasional burning rubble. 

"Oh." 

The two young wizards stood in front of what had once been Wool's Orphanage but was now nothing more than a pile of charred wood and stone. 

The older wizard looked at Tom with concern but Tom barely reacted. He was hardly fond of the place he had lived in since birth after all. His trunk was shrunk and in his pocket with his wand so there was no loss to be dismayed about. The only thing he felt was irritation. He needed to find a place to stay for the summer which is a bit of a challenge for a penniless orphan such as himself. He could stay at one of his followers' manor but he wasn't particularly fond of that idea either. No, he has something other in mind - 

"Do you have another place to stay? If not, you can come over to my place if it's alright with you." The older wizard offered hesitantly.

Tom's attention zeroed in on the wizard at his side. Stormy grey eyes fixed intently on brilliant emeralds. 

Suddenly, the edges of those stormy grey eyes crinkled and cupid bow lips curled into a truly angelic smile, "Thank you. That would be a really big help. I'm Tom, by the way. Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Sooty lashes fluttered over emeralds like two feathery fans, "Oh! No problem. My name is Hadrian James Peverell. But you can call me Hadrian if you like. I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself earlier." The older wizard, Hadrian replied with a sheepish quirk of pale lips and a slender hand raised to ruffle raven locks. 

"It's nice to meet you, Hadrian." Stormy greys followed the path of that slender hand as it threaded through unruly jet black waves, startlingly pale in contrast. 

Smile widening to show a hint of pearly white, Tom took the offered hand for side-along apparition, stormy grey never leaving the figure at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've only written child Tom so far so I hope this teenage Tom is in character. Fourteen is a strange age to place - he has already lost any innocence he might have had but he hasn't completely stepped on the path of no return either. To meet someone like immortal Harry who has lost his own moral compass a few thousand years back at this crossroads age there are so many possibilities to explore. 
> 
> To be honest I have no idea where this fic will lead to either *✧◝(⁰▽⁰)◜✧*


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